


And It All Leads to You

by mooniemurphy



Category: DWSA, Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bisexual Hanschen Rilow, Character Death, Deaf Character, Deaf West Spring Awakening - Freeform, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Everyone in Spring Awakening is gay or bi or pan, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/F, F/M, Hanschen is actually a softy, M/M, Suicide, Thea and Melitta are Rilows, Trans Ernst Robel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-21 05:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11937168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mooniemurphy/pseuds/mooniemurphy
Summary: Otherwise known as, the five times Hanschen got his heart broken and the one time he didn't.





	1. Wendla Bergmann

The first time Hanschen Rilow experienced heartbreak was when he was five years old, which seemed very young, and, in retrospect, wasn’t really heartbreak at all, only, to a five year old, it felt like heartbreak.

He’d been friends, in name, with Melchior Gabor and Wendla Bergmann and Ilse Neumann and Moritz Stiefel since he was born; they’d pretty much always been around. Melchior was loud and annoying, and two years older than Hanschen, so he thought he knew everything, and Hanschen decided very early on that he didn’t like him at all. Moritz was a lot quieter, a year older than Melchior, but not very smart, and Hanschen didn’t particularly like him, either. Ilse, who was the same age as Moritz, and Wendla, who was just a year younger than Melchior, Hanschen liked just fine. 

And it would be because of Wendla Bergmann, soft and gentle and kind and really pretty, in the way that a six year old was pretty to a five year old, that Hanschen experienced his first heartbreak.

It was a stupid thing, really, and of course it would be, at five. They were playing house, and Wendla, somehow, was chosen as the mom. Hanschen decided that he very much wanted to be her husband at five years old, and told her so, but even back then, her first choice had always been Melchior Gabor. It was no wonder that she and Moritz both seemed to chose Melchior, though; they were both deaf and couldn't hear how annoying he was every time he opened his mouth.

(This would start a lifelong feud between Melchior and Hanschen, and even fifteen years later, Wendla still wouldn’t be aware that their rivalry initially stemmed from wanting to be her husband in a game. It was a trivial thing, really, but what would one expect from children.)

This heartbreak was simple and very easily gotten over; the very next time they played together, he was allowed to be Ilse’s husband, and that sort of made up for it. Even if he did bring his little sisters, Melitta and Thea, and had to watch them fawn over Melchior Gabor, too. And the heartbreaks his future held would often make him look back and wish that he was still getting rejected by a six year old Wendla Bergmann, pretty and honest and loving even back then, and that life always stayed that simple.

Though, twelve years later, Hanschen would still find himself wanting to cry that he would never be her husband.


	2. Max Von Trenk

Hanschen Rilow’s first kiss happened when he was twelve years old, in the basement of the church where his dad was a pastor. The boy’s name was Max Von Trenk, and he was thirteen and, in Hanschen’s eyes, beautiful, with dark curls and big, green eyes. He was a little taller than Hanschen, and very soft-spoken, and Hanschen was sure that, no matter what his father preached every Sunday, he was falling in love with him in that simple way that naive twelve year old boys fall in love.

They had left their Sunday school class, and were waiting for the sermon to start, and had wandered down to the basement purely out of boredom. They wouldn’t make it back up for the sermon, but Hanschen didn’t care, even if his dad did yell at him. His dad yelled at him for everything anymore. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the vast room that was mostly only used for church lunches, and neither had spoken for what felt like a very long time to a twelve year old boy.

“Do you think your dad is right, Hansi?” Max asked tentatively, his voice very, very soft, like a feather, and Hanschen looked up, tilting his head curiously.

“I think my dad is wrong about a lot of things,” he answered. “What do you mean?”

“About… boys. Liking boys. And how that’s bad, and how being gay could send you to hell. Do you think he’s right?”

“I don’t know,” Hanschen admitted, playing with the laces of his dress shoe absently until the knot fell loose in his fingers and he sighed. “I don’t want to think he is, to think that something like that could send you to hell, but I’m already not sure about any of this. I don’t think I believe in God, Max.”

Max didn’t look surprised, just nodded slowly. “I don’t, either, Hansi. I don’t think being gay is bad, and I don’t believe in God.”

“Why did you ask me then?”

“I just wanted to know that you wouldn’t hate me if I-- If I…” He seemed stuck there, with those words, trailing off. Hanschen frowned, brow furrowing. He started to say that he wouldn’t hate Max for anything, that he couldn’t, because Max was his best friend. But the words didn’t come, because Max’s mouth was on his.

It wasn’t anything spectacular.

They were both awkward and kind of clumsy, and neither of them actually knew how to kiss, so it was just lips against lips, and it was short and soft and barely there, and Hanschen was definitely in love. 

“I’m sorry!” Max was saying as soon as they had parted. “I wasn’t supposed to-- Don’t hate me, please!”

“I don’t hate you!” Hanschen responded instantly. “I couldn’t hate you, Max.” 

There was silence for a few seconds, and then Max nodded, like he’d just discovered something. “I like you, Hanschen.”

“I like you, too.”

For a twelve year old, that was what dating was, and Hanschen, for a very brief period of time, was happy. But his disbelief in God was only reaffirmed, stronger than ever, when the Von Trenk family was in a car crash less than two months later.

Max’s family were declared dead on the scene. Max himself was taken to the hospital, bruised and bloodied and broken, and in a coma. Hanschen went after school to the hospital almost every day for a week to be with him, sitting at his bedside despite the glares that he got from his own father in response. He sat by the bed everyday, telling Max about what he had missed at school that day, and all the stuff he would have to catch up on when he woke up.

He firmly refused to believe the doctor when she told him that Max might not wake up.

He refused to accept that it could be happening, and he refused to believe that nasty voice in his head that told him it was their fault. It was their fault for sinning, for doing what God had said was wrong. If God would purposely injure a thirteen year old boy for kissing and liking another boy, then Hanschen didn’t want to believe in him, anyway.

And so he wouldn’t.

Hanschen was with Max in the hospital when the heartline on the monitor stopped. He held his hand and felt the burning behind his eyes, the sharp tug in his heart when the short, steady beeping flatlined. He stayed there for a very long time, even when they tried to pull him away and out of the room.

And he didn’t cry, because he’d been taught at a young age by his father and his brother and a firm fist, that Rilow men never cried. He didn’t cry in the hospital, and he didn’t cry at the funerals three days later. 

“Maxwell Fynn Von Trenk”, the tombstone read behind the mound of fresh dirt that marked the new grave. “Our Beloved Son.”

And Hanschen sat at the gravestone a lot after Max died, bringing flowers sometimes, or just finishing homework, because it was easy to feel his best friend’s, and first kiss’s, and first love’s presence there. And still, he never once shed a tear.

But from that moment, he held his heart behind a barbwire fence. Love, he decided, was irrelevant and unnecessary and only got you hurt.


	3. Bobby Maler (He's the Worst)

There was a long period of time-- like, almost two whole years-- that Hanschen went without kissing anyone, or even considering kissing anyone. The sting of Max’s death lingered like the ache of a healing broken bone in the back of his heart, and he didn’t want to let himself get close to anyone. Yes, he’d only been twelve, and in the past two years, he had learned that he probably wasn’t actually in love with Max, but he had still cared about him deeply. Caring led to pain. It was a lesson best learned with time.

And then there was Bobby Maler.

Bobby was sixteen to Hanschen’s not quite fourteen, and Hanschen was just learning that he very much enjoyed watching the older boy’s ass as he put his khakis back on after gym class everyday. He had a nice body and a cute face, brown hair that hung in front of bright blue eyes, and a mouth that was just a little too wide for his face. But that imperfection didn’t matter because the rest of Bobby was cute, and he had a car.

And he was interested in Hanschen, for some reason, thirteen year old Hanschen with his blond hair and his blue eyes and his habit of knowing more than he needed to know. Hanschen understood; he knew he was good-looking and smart, and that people noticed both of these things in him. 

But he didn’t really understand.

Because anyone who knew Bobby would have told Hanschen not to get involved or attached, had Hanschen been willing to listen. But he wasn’t willing to listen, and therefore, the third time his heart was broken was almost entirely his own fault.

Hanschen’s father loved Bobby, and that should have been sign number one that Hanschen shouldn’t have. But everything about Bobby seemed to draw the younger boy in, from his clothes to the way he acted like he knew more than he really did (he actually wasn’t very smart, and Hanschen knew it, but he ignored it). 

The first time they kissed was in Bobby’s bedroom, where they’d come to study. Hanschen wasn’t really sure what he had intended to actually do when they got there, though he had known that studying wasn’t on the agenda at all.

Bobby tasted like cigarettes and cherry Coke, and his lips were very soft, and Hanschen felt like his heart was going to pound right out of his chest, because oh. Bobby was a very, very good kisser, soft and sweet and measured, reeling Hanschen in, Hanschen, who acted like he was more experienced than he was, but who had really never done anything like this before.

And then it stopped being soft and sweet.

Bobby kissed with a lot of tongue and a lot of teeth, and it was very hard to breathe, and all at once, everything was moving very, very fast, and Hanschen felt like he was suffocating. Bobby’s hands were on his chest, and then his stomach, and then his hips, and he was trying to push away, but Bobby wasn’t moving.

“Bobby, wait,” he protested as Bobby kissed down his neck. Large hands pushed up his shirt, feeling under it and along the soft, smooth skin of Hanschen’s stomach, and Hanschen shuddered. This needed to stop, he wanted this to stop. “Bobby,” he tried again, “stop.”

Bobby’s only response was something along the lines of ‘If you loved me, you’d let me’, which succeeded in doing one thing. It reaffirmed to Hanschen what he had been becoming increasingly aware of, and quickly: Sex and love were not mutually inclusive, and Bobby Maler certainly didn’t love him. 

But he might have, at least a little, loved Bobby Maler.

So his heart broke a little right then, but he had sex with Bobby that night, anyway. Because if sex really didn’t matter as much as it felt to Hanschen like it didn’t matter, what reason did he have to say no? It wasn’t even great sex; in fact, Hanschen was sure Bobby had no more idea what he was doing than Hanschen did, and it was little more than painful and really sweaty, but it happened.

A milestone for Hanschen, losing his virginity, and he found that he really, really couldn’t care any less.

Sex would be sex, as he and Bobby would prove multiple times over the next several years, and love, if something so trivial even existed, would be love, and those two things would stay in entirely separate categories. And Hanschen would remember that for the next time, so his heart would stay safe.


	4. Melchior Gabor

I lse called him an idiot for ever sleeping with Bobby Maler. She called.him an idiot, too, for continuing to sleep with Bobby Maler after. She called him an even bigger idiot for ever starting to sleep with Melchior Gabor, which. Okay. She was probably right. Ilse was usually right, loathe as Hanschen was to admit it. And that was why Hanschen had deigned not to tell her. Somehow she just  _ knew _ . 

 

It wasn’t something Hanschen thought would ever have the power to hurt him. The sex, not Ilse knowing things. It was just sex, plain and simple, no emotion, no strings attached, and that was good, that was the way he preferred it. He knew what it was going into it, and so did Melchior. They both agreed to it. 

 

The sex, at least, was fantastic. Melchior was  _ almost _ as experienced as Hanschen was, and had also learned, through heartbreak, to distinguish physical intimacy from emotional intimacy, and their bodies fit together perfectly. And it was about the only time, ever, that Hanschen didn’t absolutely hate being in Melchior’s presence. Likely because Melchior was reduced to nothing more than moaning, and didn’t actually speak, and that alone sapped ninety percent of Hanschen’s irritation. He hated listening to the older boy talk; in fact, he honestly just hated Melchior Gabor.

 

So he didn’t know why it fucking  _ stung  _ when Melchior put an end to it. 

 

Apparently, Moritz, who had been holding out on Melchior since they were in like, elementary school, had finally agreed to go on a date with him, and that was great, good for them, but  _ seriously _ ? He knew for a fact that those two wouldn’t work out, knew that it would end, and quickly, so there was no reason to put such an abrupt end to their no strings attached, absolutely amazing sex. Mostly, he wasn't looking forward to having to pick up strangers again, with no promise the sex would be half as good.

 

“If it doesn't work out,” Melchior told him earnestly, and he seemed so fucking pleased with himself for finally getting this date (and seriously,  _ good for him _ ), “you'll be my first call.”

 

It won't work out, is what Hanschen didn't say. He wanted to, but then it would seemed like he cared. And he  _ didn't  _ care, it just-- it was something sharp and barbed that pricked at him a little, right in the place that it hurt most to be pricked at. He didn't understand.

 

Later, he would assess the situation. 

 

It wasn't Melchior that stung, because Hanschen didn't care about Melchior. He didn't like him, didn't have romantic feelings for Melchior (because feelings? What are those?). The loss of truly amazing sex was heartbreaking in of itself, and Melchior's body, the pretty noises he made-- well, fuck. Hanschen would miss those.

 

But Hanschen was coming to a conclusion, short and sharp and nasty, that stuck in the back of his mind like flies in a cobweb. He was… Disposable. To Bobby, to Melchior. Easily set aside, unless it was for sex. He was useful for his body. And he had known that-- he liked sex, he was good at sex, and he loved having it. And he was fine with that being all people liked him for. The rest of him was an acquired taste, and he didn't want most people to acquire it.

  
But apparently his heart (and really, he thought he had sufficiently cut that damn thing out), didn't like being so disposable, because it hurt. Sharp and distinct, and Hanschen, who claimed to be heartless and unbreakable, was so utterly screwed.


	5. Moritz Stiefel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SEVERE TRIGGER WARNING.
> 
> This chapter includes suicide and suicidal thoughts, along with abuse, use of marijuana, and underage drinking.

It was Ernst that told him. And it was probably good that it was Ernst, because, had anyone else shown up at the Rilow home at ten fifty seven pm, Hanschen's father would have murdered them both, and then burned their corpses, just to make sure they were actually dead. Especially any other boy. His father had it in his head that Hanschen was sleeping with any boy that came to the door, and if he wasn't, Melitta or Thea was, which was... actually generally true.

He knew something was wrong the second he opened the door. Ernst was in a t-shirt and sweatpants, like he'd been about to sleep when he came over. Ran, by the looks of his disheveled hair and flushed, splotchy face, and he wasn't wearing his binder, which was a dead giveaway that he hadn't been intending to go anywhere. There were tears in his eyes, and Hanschen was instantly on edge.

"Ernst? What is it?"

"It-- Ilse found-- Moritz--"

"Come inside," Hanschen cut in gently, standing back to let Ernst in, because there was a chill in the wind; it was early December, and Ernst was in a fucking T-shirt. He was lucky it wasn't snowing. Hanschen himself was freezing, and Ernst wasn't making any sense, and he probably needed to just sit down. But when Ernst walked inside, all he did was throw his arms around Hanschen desperately, and, confused, Hanschen allowed him to, even despite the sharp glare from his father. "Ernst, what--"

"Moritz is dead!" Ernst blurted out, and then he was shaking with silent sobs, and Hanschen felt his blood run cold.

Dead? That wasn't-- he couldn't be dead. Mortiz Stiefel couldn't be dead. Moritz was an anxiety-riddled mess, sure, and he and Hanschen most definitely weren't very close; in fact, Hanschen could barely stand Moritz at the best of times, but he'd been a constant in Hanschen's life since the younger was like three. They had a _group_. Him and Wendla and Melchior and Ilse, playing pirates and house and-- And, no, Moritz wasn't dead, it was some kind of joke. He couldn't picture walking into class-- five separate classes, where they sat next to each other-- and not seeing Moritz sitting there, dazed and probably half asleep.

It was a single gunshot wound, Ernst told him later, after he'd stopped crying, and Hanschen still hadn't cried once, because he was too stunned, because a Rilow man never shed a tear. Self-inflicted. And even then, all Hanschen could manage was a wince. Suicide. One gunshot. 

He should have seen. He should have known. Throughout the years, in class, multiple signed conversations under the desks because Moritz didn't understand the coursework, or because he'd had a question that he thought Hanschen could answer. And they weren't friends, really, but Hanschen could never _not_ answer, because Moritz's eyes were always bright and curious and open, always so open, so honest, so trusting--

 

He should have fucking known, he'd known Moritz for so long-- 

The funeral was like hell. Hanschen was sixteen and attending the funeral of his second classmate to die in the past three years, and thank god he hadn't actually been there when this one died, but maybe he should have been and there wouldn't have been a funeral to attend at all--

 

Everyone was dressed nice, and everyone who spoke sounded fake, because the only people there that really knew Moritz were Melchior Gabor and Ernst, both of whom refused to speak, and Hanschen-- Melchior was crying, silently sobbing, cheeks streaked with tears, and maybe they would have worked out, been a happy couple, gotten married, maybe, but they'd never know now. _So much wasted potential, and how the_ **fuck** _were they ever supposed to get over this?_

 

Hanschen took a turn laying a single rose in the grave, like he'd done with Max, and his mind flashed through all the conversations throughout the years, and maybe if he'd tried harder, or been nicer, or actually treated Moritz better, been a decent friend--

 

He felt shattered. He'd been hurt and heartbroken when Max died, but it was nothing compared to now, no matter how much he had loved Max. It was nothing compared to that feeling of knowing that Moritz had walked out into the woods, put a gun under his chin, and pulled the trigger. It was nothing compared to knowing that Moritz had felt so lost and sad and alone that his only way to picture a better life had been to just not have one at all, and _god dammit_ , Hanschen should have tried harder.

 

As he stood at the edge of the grave, hands trembling, he could hear Ernst crying, and Wendla, and his sisters, because they'd been close to Moritz, too, and Ilse, who had found his body, who had been with him right before he died and blamed herself, but they all blamed themselves, and Martha. He couldn't hear Melchior, but he didn't want to hear Melchior, couldn't even look at Melchior, or he'd probably break. He wanted to apologize to Melchior for being an ass about him and Moritz at first, but he didn't know what to say. He didn't think he'd ever know what to say. Would any of them ever know what to say ever again? 

 

Would any of them ever know how to even look at each other again?

 

And a Rilow man never cried, but Hanschen had long since denied the Rilow name, like three years previously when it was Max's funeral, and tears were tracking down his cheeks, hot and fast. And he didn't even fight them, didn't bother to wipe them away because why should he? His heart, already so broken beyond repair, had shattered even further at the thought of this sweet, hopeless mess of a boy with a world of potential, never living to realize it.

 

But the moment that would leave Hanschen broken to what he thought was beyond repair came after, when they were back home and out of the public eye. As soon as they were inside, his dad grabbed him by the wrist and jerked him to a stop, so that they were face to face. And then, without hesitation, he slapped Hanschen across the face, hard enough to leave a bruise.

 

"A Rilow man never cries," he spat in Hanschen's face, as though Hanschen's friend, because he _was_ Hanschen's friend, had been for like _twelve years_ , no matter what Hanschen said, hadn't just killed himself. As thought it wasn't a valid reason for a sixteen year old boy to be crying, like Mortiz wasn't only _eighteen fucking years old when he pulled the fucking trigger._

 

_So much wasted potential._

 

_Too young. Too soon._

Hanschen felt like ice inside, but outwards, he could feel everything fading from his face, to a careful blank nothingness _._ Because a Rilow man never cried, never showed emotion. It wouldn't be a problem anymore, he didn't think, because he wasn't sure he had a heart left with which to feel emotion. And he'd thought that before (Max, Bobby), but he'd never felt so fucking cold, so fucking numb, so fucking empty.

 

"Yes, sir," he replied tonelessly, jerking his wrist from his father's grip. "Sorry to be such a god damn disappointment to you." He shoved past his father and stopped to kiss both Melitta and Thea on the cheek, ignoring their worried faces, and Thea grabbing his wrist to get him to stay. He wondered what they saw in his face to awaken such worry in their own, to have Thea, who he barely got along with, clinging to his arm. Did they think--

 

He cut that thought off before it could form, and he went up to his room, locked the door, and pushed the screen out of the window. He grabbed his pipe from under his bed, dug the little bag of weed out of his dresser, along with the bottle of Crown Royal he had tucked away. Fifteen years old, and he was already a functioning alcoholic; he sorely wished he had something stronger. And then he climbed down the drainpipe and disappeared into the woods about a mile away, to the river where Mortiz's body had been found.

The blood had since been washed away, faded into the mud, but it was like it was all still fresh in his mind. He sat at the bank of the river, kicking his shoes off and setting them beside him so he could dip his toes into the water. It was freezing; he didn't even flinch. He couldn't feel anything. He took a hit from his pipe, and, as he exhaled the smoke, he couldn't help but wonder if Moritz had the right idea.


	6. +1. Ernst Robel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The change in tense is on purpose. I greatly enjoyed writing this series.

It's Ernst.

 

It's always been Ernst.

 

They're graduating, because somehow, they all made it through this year. Through-- He'd be nineteen now, Moritz, and graduating with them, because Melchior and Hanshcen wouldn't have let him not graduate with them, because they were a group. There's a dull ache in Hanschen's heart thinking about it.

 

The graveyard is beautiful in late spring, the middle of May, flowers blossoming on the trees, and vines curling up the graves. Mortiz's grave doesn't look so fresh anymore, and there are flowers growing on it, tulips, bright red and pink. He's buried right next to Max, and Hanschen doesn't know whether to smile or cry, because he desperately wants to do both.

 

He's sitting in front of the graves in the slacks and dress shirt he's supposed to wear to graduation, probably getting dirt on them, but he doesn't really care. He's lost in thought, staring at the letters on Moritz's grave. The numbers there put him at only eighteen, as he wouldn't have turned nineteen until January, too fucking young for a gravestone. The numbers on Max's place him at even younger, and Hanschen wonders if maybe it is all hopeless. Even if the spring is supposed to remind him of new hope dawning and new life, and wash away the pain and sorrow of the winter, he still wonders if maybe it's all hopeless, anyway.

 

It's Ernst that pulls him out of it.

 

And when Ernst walks up to him in the graveyard, hands pushed into the pockets of his suit jacket, he realizes that it's always been Ernst.

 

Hanschen has pretty much always been in love with Ernst, because how couldn't he be? Ernst is kind and hopeful and sweet and shy and bashful, and an excellent kisser from what Hanschen remembers of those few times they kissed back in freshman year so many years ago. And he's everything Hanschen doesn't remember how to be; happy, innocent, optimistic. Even when Ernst had lost Moritz, his best friend, he'd never lost that youthful hope that the future would hold great things. He was strong; of course he was strong. He was transgender and out about it, and stood tall and strong and unblinking in the face of the bullying he faced by the people who still dared to call him a girl. Hanschen wouldn't have been able to handle it.

 

He'd pulled Hanschen through Max's death. He'd ignored the rumors that Bobby spread about him after they'd been together. Hanschen had been the first person Ernst had told he was transgender, and Hanschen had been with him when he'd gotten his hair cut, and bought his first binder. He'd remained steadfast by Hanschen's side despite his little fling with Melchior.

 

And it had been, those first few weeks after Moritz's death, seeing the unwavering strength in Ernst's eyes that had put any hope back in Hanschen's heart. It had been Ernst's softness that had reminded him why feeling wasn't such a bad thing, why things like joy and love existed, because when it came to Ernst, those things never hurt.

 

And it occurs to him that he should have told Ernst a long time ago that he was in love with him, but after Max, and then Bobby, it had been so hard to do so. And then he'd become the school's biggest slut, and Ernst deserved better, always deserved better.

 

But Ernst still looked at him the way he's looking at him right now, with hope and happiness. Never judgement, never shame, never like he wanted to try to hide that Hanschen was his friend. And Hanschen certainly never deserved that, either.

 

"The ceremony is in an hour," Ernst reminds Hanschen cautiously, like Hanschen is fragile, and he wants to snort, because _yeah_ , he probably is. He feels like he's right on some edge, possibly about to fall, possibly about to fly. He doesn't know what yet.

 

He thinks there's probably only one way to find out, and he can't make himself say it.

 

So he says instead, "I know. Seems a little trivial. He should be there."

 

Ernst looks at the gravestone, his eyes flickering over Moritz's name slowly. "I know. But he can't be, so you have to be. For him. For them both."

 

"Do you believe in God, Ernst?"

 

Ernst hesitates then, silent for so long that Hanschen almost wonders if he's not going to answer. "Yes," he finally says, "but I know you don't. And it's okay that you don't, but Hanschen, you have to believe in something. It doesn't have to be God, I understand why you don't, but something. Something that you can hold on to, because if you don't have anything to hold on to, you just... fall." Like Moritz, he doesn't say, but it hangs in the air between them.

 

His voice is fragile, like it's about to give out on him. Hanschen's heart aches, and fuck, he still has a heart, and it's Ernst, like it's always been Ernst, reminding him that he still has a heart, that it's still beating, that there's still life and hope and something to believe in.

 

So Hanschen kisses him. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't hold back. He just kisses him, soft and deep and unreserved, and Ernst kisses back.

 

"Hanschen?" Ernst mumbles when Hanschen pulls away.

 

"I love you," Hanschen rushes out, hurrying on before Ernst can interrupt. "No, wait, let me say this. I love you. I've loved you for years, _fucking years_ , Ernst, and I never knew how to say it, I never knew how to show it, because love has always been a Bad Thing for me, and I've always associated it with pain. But I've never associated you with pain, because you've never hurt me, you've never abandoned me. And maybe the love I've associated with pain is the poisonous kind, the kind meant to harm, when I should be associating it with-- with you, your kindness, the kind of love that's meant to heal and to help, because that's what it's always done for me, ever since _Max_. I should have told you sooner, but I'm an asshole and I'm jaded and I didn't want to get hurt again, and maybe I'm opening myself up to get hurt again, but I wanted to tell you before it was too late."

 

Ernst is stunned into silence, and Hanschen feels like he's just jumped off the edge he's been tetering on since Max died. He doesn't know yet whether he's going to fall, like Moritz did, into the jagged and pointed rocks below, or if he's going to soar, but he needed to say it.

 

It takes Ernst a shockingly long time to answer. Which shouldn't be shocking, because Hanschen has never in his life made a speech like that, never in his life let himself care like that, never opened himself up. No one would know what to say. But the silence is unbearable, and this is what falling feels like, spiraling out of control, towards the rocks below.

 

And then-- oh. Ernst is kissing him, and Hanschen's soaring, and this, this, is what love is supposed to feel like. Building and happy, without the pain. A fire building in his veins, igniting in every nerve, bringing his heart back from that dark and frozen place it had been in for so long and bringing it back with a vengeance.

 

His heart kicks into overdrive, hammering in his chest, reminding him that he's alive, that this is real, and he's hopeless to do anything but just hang on for the ride.

 

"I love you, too, Hansi," Ernst whispers against Hanschen's lips. "I always have."

 

They leave the graveyard together, fingers laced, and the air suddenly doesn't feel so cold anymore. Glancing back, Hanschen is almost sure he can see Moritz there, and Max, too, like they're both still there, both watching. Both smiling.

 

And yeah. Yeah, Hanschen is alive. The sorrow of the winter is fading away, the flowers are blooming, and he's not sure he's completely okay yet, but his heart is still beating, and now, it's beating with hope. With love. With all the things Hanschen never let himself feel before. He's feeling them now.

 

And even if Moritz won't see it, and Max won't see it, Hanschen's going to live to prove that it'll all be okay.


End file.
